


Here Now

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [106]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5744110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>June, 2013: England takes an unscheduled holiday, leaving Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland to attend a G8 meeting in his stead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thought it was long past time to start getting Wales and Romano together properly. This fic won't _quite_ get them there, but they'll be at least halfway by the end of it...
> 
> Sequel to [Law of Attraction](http://archiveofourown.org/works/630851), [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1653398/chapters/4508739), and [Change Your Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1136113).

* * *

 

 **16th June, 2013; County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland**  
  
  
  
"I didn't think he'd actually do it, you know," Scotland says for the eleventh time since they started their journey.  
  
And the first ten times, Wales had pretended not to hear his brother because it had seemed like the easiest way of avoiding yet another argument on the subject, but with Northern Ireland now in the car alongside them, it feels imperative that he attempt to defend England's behaviour as best he can.  
  
"I don't see why not," he says. "You practically begged him to, I recall."  
  
Scotland's top lip curls in a sneer. "I've noticed that you conveniently don't _recall_ that you _encouraged_ him."  
  
"Perhaps because I did no such thing."  
  
From the very first insult Scotland growled at England, through the mug of tea England subsequently hurled at Scotland's head, and all the shouting, chest-beating, and posturing that followed, he'd simply been unable to get a word in edgeways.  
  
Scotland clearly saw complicity in his silence, however, and has yet to allow an opportunity to berate Wales for it pass him by unremarked.  
  
"Oh, of course not. It was all my fault, wasn't it? It's never yours. Never _precious England's_. I don't—"  
  
"Where did England disappear to, anyway?" Northern Ireland puts in suddenly from the back seat. "Did you ever find out?"  
  
Scotland and Wales shake their heads. England may as well have dropped off the face of the planet after kicking them out of his house a fortnight ago. His aggressively cheerful parting remark that he'd, "See you both in July!" proved not to be hyperbole, as they'd expected, but his final word, and they've not heard another from him since. He hasn't answered a single call to any of his phones, or replied to a single email.  
  
Whilst Scotland was inclined to dismiss England's uncommunicativeness as nothing more than a prolonged sulk that he was bound to snap out of before it had any actual impact on his professional life, as the date of the G8 summit loomed ever closer and there was still no sign of their brother, Wales began to fear that he hadn't merely been issuing empty threats this time and really did intend to abandon them to it alone.  
  
Two days ago, his anxiety had reached such an unbearable pitch that he'd finally broken down, given in, and arranged a meeting with their boss.  
  
The PM had puckered his brow, nodded, and made a good show of sympathising with Wales' worries, but at the end of their meeting, he'd still swept them all callously aside. Mr England, he'd informed Wales, was long overdue for a holiday. It was only one summit, after all, and he was sure Mr England's brothers would prove perfect ambassadors in his absence.  
  
Wales didn't get a wink of sleep that night. He researched tax evasion into the early hours instead, though he doesn't remember the slightest detail of what he'd read now. He's almost certain that Scotland won't have even glanced at the information the PM had forwarded to them.  
  
They're woefully unprepared, and Germany will doubtless glare at them very disapprovingly indeed in their meeting tomorrow. Possibly even tut.  
  
It is going to be a disaster.  
  
Scotland gives Wales' shoulder an encouraging nudge when he sighs despondently.  
  
"It could all still turn out to be some ridiculous test," he says, his smile brimming with an optimism that Wales cannot begin to understand given the circumstances, never mind share. "England will probably be waiting in the hotel lobby so he can have a good laugh at us for being gullible enough to fall for this shite."  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
**16th June, 2013; Lough Erne, Northern Ireland**  
  
  
  
No England, mocking or otherwise, appears to greet their arrival at the hotel, and, Scotland informs them when he returns from the front desk, no-one expects him to put in an appearance later, either.  
  
"They've got our names down as the UK representatives," Scotland says, "but it was too late to do anything about the rooms. They're booked solid, so we've only got the one that was supposed to be England's." He passes the keycard to Northern Ireland. "Which is now yours, North. So we're sorted, right?"  
  
Wales blinks at him in confusion, wondering if he'd somehow missed an entire conversation. "Are we all going to share?" he asks.  
  
"No...?" Scotland looks at Wales as though he's just spoken in some strange and incomprehensible language of his own devising. "I'm going to share with France."  
  
"Just me and _Gogledd_ , then?"  
  
Northern Ireland turns to Wales, too, wearing an identical expression of bafflement. "What?"  
  
"You'll be bunking up with your horrible boyfriend, won't you?" Scotland says after exchanging first a puzzled glance with their brother, then a frown that seems to indicate a degree of concern. "We presumed you'd already arranged it."  
  
Between the tension, tax, and harried rescheduling of his week, Wales had hardly had sufficient time to eat, much less spare a thought for his fellow delegates. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Romano might be in attendance, even knowing full well that Veneziano would be.  
  
"Right," he says dully, with a fast-sinking heart. "Yes. I am. Looking forward to it."  
  
"To each their own," Scotland says. He doesn't even try to hide his grimace, but it's such a marked improvement from the angry bile he used to spew that it seems almost supportive. It's not much and, if Wales is ruthlessly honest with himself, his efforts at reconciling himself to Wales and Romano's supposed relationship are likely to be rendered pointless in the very near future, but he appreciates them all the same. "Right, I'm off up to France's room. Meet you in the bar in a couple of hours?"  
  
He shoulders his bag, turns, and strides away before Wales has even finished the downward trajectory of his first nod.  
  
Before Northern Ireland follows suit, he fishes around in his coat pocket and then passes Wales a small square of paper.  
  
It's a white sticker, still on its backing, upon which Northern Ireland has written:

 

 

>   
>  **HELLO, MY NAME IS WALES**  
>  \- England's brother  
>  \- Not dating France  
>  \- Please ask me about: rugby/poetry/male voice choirs  
>  \- Do **NOT** ask me about: Sheep

  
  
Wales honestly doesn't know what to say.  
  
After a moment or two, Northern Ireland begins scuffing his feet against the highly polished lobby floor, noisily clears his throat, and then says, "We talked about it at America's party? How you should have a badge that... Okay, it was probably a stupid idea..."  
  
He reaches out as though to snatch the sticker back, but Wales closes his hand around it, keeping it safe.  
  
"No, it wasn't," he says. "It was very thoughtful."  
  
Wales' eyes well, and he has the almost overwhelming urge to cling to Northern Ireland – preferably for the rest of the day – but he resists it. His little brother doesn't seem to care for hugs, and springing one on him regardless would be nothing but selfishness; for Wales' benefit and comfort and not Northern Ireland's own.  
  
He thus restrains himself to: "Thank you, _Gogledd_."  
  
His voice cracks a little, nevertheless, which causes Northern Ireland to shoot him an apprehensive look, clearly fearing the onset of tears, and lends urgency to his steps when he thereafter hurries away towards the lifts.  
  
Wales supposes he should follow him. Search out Romano's room.  
  
He heads towards the bar.

 

* * *

 

  
  
Wales is gloomily nursing his second pint of cider when a voice calls out, " _Galles_!  
  
It sounds far too delighted to be Romano's.  
  
Wales grins, slips down from his stool, and is caught up almost immediately in a tight embrace. He gladly returns it, and the cheek kisses that follow.  
  
"You never said you were going to be attending the summit," Italy says.  
  
"I wasn't supposed to be," Wales says. "It was a bit of a last-minute change."  
  
"Well, I'm glad you're here," Italy says, and Wales is almost inclined to believe him.  
  
Although Romano has barely tolerated Wales' few visits to his home, Italy welcomed him there like one of the family. And not like one of Wales' own family – whose sullen reticence was echoed instead in Romano – but in the true, hospitable sense of the phrase.  
  
His apparent fondness for Wales' company could, of course, be feigned for his brother's sake, but Wales' continues to hold out the hope that he's too guileless for that kind of sustained deception.  
  
"I'm so happy to see you!" Italy continues. "And Romano will be, too."  
  
As if on cue, Romano chooses that moment to walk through the door that leads into the bar. In the split second before he notices Wales, he almost _does_ look happy; his expression calm and open, a slight smile sitting comfortably on his lips.  
  
His customary scowl descends the instant he catches Wales' eye, however.  
  
Wales offers Italy a stammered and largely nonsensical apology, and scurries over to intercept Romano before he can begin to approach them, as the conversation they need to have is one neither of them will have any wish for Italy to overhear.  
  
"What the hell are you doing here?" Romano hisses as he draws near.  
  
"England's fucked off on holiday and didn't leave me much choice in the matter," Wales whispers back. "Look, sorry about this and everything, but I'm going to have to share your room again."  
  
"What?!" Romano's eyes widen in shock and, Wales suspects, a certain amount of horror. "Why?"  
  
"Because _Yr Alban_ and _Gogledd_ are here, too, and I'll have nowhere to sleep otherwise."  
  
Romano's nose wrinkles, obviously finding the idea distasteful, but he does eventually spit out, "Fine. But you're taking the sofa."  
  
Their first attempt at sharing a bed following Scotland's Hogmanay celebrations last year had been uncomfortable and awkward, but ultimately bearable. Their second attempt had ended in mortification on Wales' side, spluttering anger on Romano's, because Wales had, as he often does, drifted across the mattress in his sleep and made an unconscious grab for the nearest source of heat.  
  
After that, it was decided that one of them would thenceforth sleep on the floor – or sofa, if there happened to be one available – whenever they were forced to room together in the future, no matter how strange it might look if anyone ever did take it into their heads to burst in on them without warning.  
  
"Of course," Wales says with a thin, artificial smile. "Wouldn't have it any other way."


	2. Chapter 2

The sofa in Romano's room looks to be about a foot shorter than Wales himself, and is, he discovers when he gives it an experimental poke, apparently made out of concrete thinly wrapped in deceptively plush fabric.  
  
His joints ache just looking at it.  
  
"There you go." Romano plonks the spare duvet and pillow they'd found at the top of the wardrobe down on the sofa, and then steps back to admire his handiwork. His lips curl disdainfully. "Well, at least it's better than the floor."  
  
Wales is unconvinced by that assessment of the relative comforts of both, but as he has every intention of retiring for the night only after he's built up such a thick and cushioning layer of intoxication around him that it won't make any odds either way, he doesn't suppose it really matters.  
  
"Right, I'll just finish unpacking," he says, "then we can get back downstairs."

Before he began his mournful contemplation of the sofa, Wales had hung his suits and shirts in the wardrobe, and squeezed his underwear and T-shirts into the one small corner of a drawer that Romano had graciously allowed him, so all that remains is for him to arrange his toiletries in the bathroom.  
  
Romano follows him there and then leans up against the doorjamb, arms folded tightly across his chest, in order to watch his progress with an intense and distrustful eye, as though he suspects that Wales can't be trusted to restrain himself from doing something nefarious with Romano's toothbrush if he's not kept under close supervision.  
  
"I'm not even touching your things," Wales says as he places his toothpaste at a few respectful centimetres of distance away from Romano's. "See?"  
  
Romano makes a low, disgusted noise at the back of his throat, like he's just swallowed something that doesn't agree with him. Seemingly, it translates to, 'A likely story, and something only an unrepentant toothbrush molester would say!" as his keen vigilance continues unwavering.  
  
After Wales has abashedly placed his supermarket brand shampoo at the furthest point of the shower cubicle from the two expensive-looking bottles that are already situated there, he says, "Okay, I think I'm all done for the time being. Bar?"  
  
Romano nods stiffly.

 

* * *

 

  
  
In their absence, both Germany and Northern Ireland have joined Italy in the bar.  
  
Though Northern Ireland has only 'joined' using a very loose definition of the term, in that he's existing in the same space as them, albeit even then by the narrowest of margins as the sofa he has claimed as his own is on the opposite side of the room and mostly hidden from view by their respective angles and a large potted plant, besides.  
  
He waves at Wales when he spots him and, after a short, contemplative pause, flaps his hand in Romano's direction, too. The corners of Romano's lips edge infinitesimally upwards, demonstrating the fine camaraderie he and Northern Ireland had forged over the heat of a saucepan during their cooking lessons of the previous year.  
  
Romano's gaze then swings towards his own brother, who is standing close enough to Germany that, when he makes a particularly exuberant hand gesture, the tips of his fingers graze against Germany's arm.  
  
The sad attempt at a smile shrivels up and dies in an instant, and Romano abruptly stomps away with the likely intention of hanging around Italy for the rest of the evening like a foul, cock-blocking smell.  
  
"I guess I'll see you later, then," Wales says to his retreating back, receiving no indication that he's even been heard in return.  
  
Northern Ireland gives him a vaguely pitying look as he approaches, then, after Wales has sat down beside him, leans over and says in an undertone, "So, I guess you haven't sorted it out yet?"  
  
"Sorted what out?"  
  
The pity intensifies. "You haven't told him that..." Northern Ireland grits his teeth and takes a slow, whistling breath through them. "That you like him?"  
  
The question startles laughter from Wales. "No. No, I haven't, _Gogledd_ , because..."  
  
Northern Ireland's expression is openly, honestly, _innocently_ interested, and Wales can't bring himself to finish his sentence in the face of it.  
  
Whilst he doesn't share England's belief that Northern Ireland should be shielded from all sex-related talk until he's reached his tercentennial at the very earliest, he still thinks his brother is a little too young to hear, ' _I don't actually_ like _him a great deal, he's just incredibly attractive, I haven't had sex for over two years, and if he's determined to continue this farce and circumstances are going to keep conspiring to throw us together like this, I want to know if he'd be interested in making the most of it_.'  
  
He probably should have picked his confidante in this with slightly more discernment.  
  
"Because I need some Dutch courage first," he says, getting to his feet again. "Possibly as much as they have in stock."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Scotland eventually puts in an appearance an hour later than he'd dictated to Wales.  
  
He has one arm hooked around Prussia's neck, and both of their faces are flushed in a way that suggests they have already drained at least one mini-bar at France's expense.  
  
They head straight to the bar itself, where they will, as Wales knows from experience, ooze testosterone over each other for the rest of the night and play drinking games until one or both of them falls over.  
  
France eschews the dubious pleasure of their joint company for the time being in favour of the slightly more salubrious environs of Wales and Northern Ireland's table, and greets them with exclamations of joy, a flurry of kisses, and the general impression that there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.  
  
"It's so good to see you both," he says, perching himself on the armchair he'd purloined from a nearby table and set alongside the sofa. "It's about time _Angleterre_ loosened his hold on the reins a little."  
  
"He didn't so much loosen it as let go entirely and then run off in the opposite direction," Wales says. "I don't suppose you've got any idea where he might be?"  
  
"My first thought was that he would be with America," France says. "But America is here alone, and claims that he hasn't seen _Angleterre_ for over three weeks. Perhaps he's visiting Portugal?"  
  
"Perhaps," Wales agrees. "But, knowing _Lloegr_ , it's equally likely that he's hiding out in his cellar, just to teach us a lesson."  
  
"Cackling," Northern Ireland adds.  
  
"Yes, he probably would be."  
  
"And rubbing his hands together in malicious glee."  
  
"That too."  
  
" _Nord_ ," France purrs, turning a smile onto Northern Ireland that's so beamingly bright that it raises a sunburn-like blush to his cheeks. "No matter where your wayward brother may have secreted himself, he's created a wonderful opportunity for you."  
  
Northern Ireland furrows his brow, clearly flummoxed. "He has?"  
  
"Of course! You can learn so much from an event such as this."  
  
"Really," Northern Ireland says in the cautious tone of someone who fears they may be walking into a verbal trap. "Like what?"  
  
France breathes deep, a terrible, feverish glint kindling deep in his eyes, and then proceeds to spill a seemingly unending stream of international taxation policies into Northern Ireland's waiting – if not precisely willing – ear.

 

* * *

  
  
  
      
It's nearing eleven o'clock when Scotland finally deigns to grace them with his presence.  
  
Wales' extremities have started to go numb, Northern Ireland has collapsed in a stewed stupor against his shoulder, and Scotland has a familiar sort of crooked, fatuous grin plastered on his face that forewarns of an incoming hug.  
  
He throws himself down next to Wales so heavily that the aftershocks of his landing nearly bounce Wales clear off the sofa.  
  
Once Wales has regained his balance, Scotland slings an arm around his back and asks, "How's my favourite brother?"  
  
Wales makes a show of looking Northern Ireland over, because he's not entirely sure yet exactly how drunk Scotland might be. On one side of that fuzzily-defined dividing line, he would simply smile if Wales were to answer, 'Fine'; on the other, he would tease him mercilessly for his presumption.  
  
"Well, I think he's still alive, at least," he says.  
  
Scotland squeezes him tightly, calls him a numpty, and then plants a sloppy kiss on his temple, which places him so far over the line that he's probably no more than a pint away from collapsing in a sotted heap himself. Wales thus deems it safe to risk leaning his weight against his brother's side.  
  
Scotland accepts it without protest, and then cranes his neck to peer appraisingly at Northern Ireland, whose head has slipped down to rest just above Wales' elbow with all the jostling, his long legs splaying out in a crooked sprawl in front of him.  
  
"There," Scotland says with a note of triumph a moment later, "I saw him take a breath. Definitely not dead. But, fucking hell, he's out cold, isn't he? What on earth's he been drinking?"  
  
"Prussia gave him a glass of... I honestly don't know what it was. It was brown? Smelt of peppermint, and coffee, and... oranges, I think? Pretty dreadful. anyway."  
  
"Shot of everything behind the bar," Scotland says, nodding sagely. "We had one each, too. Prussia only managed half."  
  
"And you finished the lot?" Wales guesses.  
  
"Was it ever in any doubt?" Scotland grins. "Anyway, he's crawled off to bed with his tail between his legs now. Couldn't stand the pace anymore."  
  
"Ah, so that's why you decided to come over here. Lack of any better options?"  
  
"Don't be stupid," Scotland says brusquely. "I was trying to keep out of your hair, is all. Thought you might want to spend time with your worse half, but it seems he didn't take the hint."  
  
Scotland glares across the room to where Romano is sitting, sandwiched between his brother and Germany, and glowering at whatever France is saying to make Italy laugh hard enough that it looks as though he's about to burst something that might be vital for his continued health.  
  
"Jesus, does he ever crack a smile?" Scotland asks.  
  
He not only smiles but laughs and kisses hands with abandon whenever they've socialised with Wales' human friends in the past. None of bonhomie has ever been directed Wales' way specifically, though.  
  
"Occasionally," he says.  
  
Scotland groans. "Look, I know I promised to stop harping on about this but, fuck it, it can't be said often enough. He's a miserable arse and I don't know how the hell you put up with him."  
  
Wales is assailed by a sudden and almost overwhelming need to confess. To tell Scotland everything: the desperate decision he made at France's party, the ridiculous charade they've perpetuated ever since, and the doubtless foolish proposition he's teetering on the edge of putting forward now.  
  
Scotland is his best friend, he should have been the first person Wales went to when he grew weary of bearing it all on his own, but, though the words rise easily enough to the tip of his tongue, try as he might, he can't quite summon up the will to give them the last little push they need.  
  
It's nine parts Scotland's tremendous prudishness regarding sex, and, if Wales is brutally honest, one part their early history together, which ensure that it remains the one of the few topics he still lacks the courage to raise with his brother unprompted, even when Scotland is so liberally soaked through with alcohol that it's a wonder he hasn't already dissolved into a puddle.  
  
Much as he'd like to, he simply can't do it.  
  
"I just muddle along as best I can," he says.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the high volume of it that Wales imbibed, not a single drop of Dutch courage has managed to reach either his head or his heart, where it is most needed. The majority of it instead feels to have settled very uneasily indeed in a heavy lump at the pit of his stomach.  
  
The glass of tepid water he gulps down does nothing to ease his nausea, and the sight of his reflection in the mirror mounted above the bathroom sink only serves to add to it. Apparently, the remainder of the alcohol has pooled in his cheeks, which are a bright, scalded red, and even puffier than usual.  
  
His eyes are bloodshot, his lips dry and chapped, and his hair has twisted itself into a mass of haphazard curls that are so intricately entwined around each other that it'd likely be easier – and certainly far less painful – to shave himself bald and start again from scratch than even attempt to untease them with a comb.  
  
All in all, he looks like something a cat would deposit on the doorstep because it was too ashamed of itself to carry on dragging it into the house.  
  
He groans, and leans his heated forehead against the soothingly cool surface of the mirror.  
  
He can't possibly ask tonight, no more than he could have asked last time, after he and Romano had just argued over some ridiculously minor slight that Wales can't remember the specifics of now, or the time before that, when Northern Ireland – who has ears like a bat – was staying in the neighbouring room.  
  
The timing has to be right. It has to be perfect, otherwise Romano likely won't even hear him out before laughing in his face.  
  
A loud banging at the closed bathroom door startles Wales, and he jerks forward reflexively, banging his stomach hard enough against the edge of the sink that it winds him a little. After a moment's pause to regather his breath, he calls out, "Yes?"  
  
"Are you going to be all night?" Romano calls back. "I need to brush my teeth."  
  
"Oh! Sorry!" Wales rushes to unlock the door and throw it open. "I didn't realise I'd been in here that long."  
  
Romano looks him slowly up and down, though not in a way that offers Wales anything approaching encouragement. He appears puzzled by something, or perhaps displeased, judging by the tight crunch of his eyebrows and pinch of his lips.  
  
When his gaze finally meanders back to Wales' face, he says, "New pyjamas."  
  
His voice is so inflectionless that it's unclear whether or not he's actually asking a question, but Wales feels compelled to reply as though is he is, anyway, just in case he does he does have a desperate need to know the answer.  
  
"Yes," he says, smoothing his hand down over the sky-blue and sea-green checked fabric covering his chest. "It's the tartan of the proud Primark clan."  
  
He grins. Romano stares at him blankly.  
  
It suddenly occurs to Wales that Primark might not have extended its reach to Italy yet, and in the spirit of education and helpfulness, he explains, "Primark's the shop where I bought them?"  
  
Nothing. Not even a tiny flicker of curiosity stirs into life on Romano's face.  
  
"And the pattern's..." Wales finds the words more and more difficult to force out, and he eventually falters into a defeated silence. "Never mind. I'll get out of your hair and leave you to it, then."  
  
He slopes off to the sofa, each and every molecule of his body burning white hot with embarrassment. He's given up hoping that he might stumble accidentally upon the one joke that will make Romano laugh; the one subject that will engage his interest.  
  
But he can't keep silent and communicate solely in grunts as Romano would seem to prefer. It's just not in his nature, so he has desperately continued trying to find some common ground between the two of them past the point of good sense and reason, and despite the fact he ends up feeling like a doltish fool after every attempt.  
  
The sofa proves even more unyielding than Wales' initial assessment had suggested, and he tosses, turns, and rearranges the bedclothes in a futile search for a comfortable spot upon it for the five or so minutes Romano spends in the bathroom.  
  
He stills in an instant when the other nation re-emerges, because he doesn't want to draw attention to himself, knowing that if Romano acknowledges his presence, Wales will consequently feel obliged to make some sort of conversation that will doubtless bring absolutely no pleasure to either of them.  
  
Thankfully, Romano ignores him, moves to his bed and flicks off the lights. In the darkness, the rustle of his clothes as he undresses sounds so loud that he might as well be disrobing right next to Wales' head.  
  
Wales screws his eyes closed and thinks very determinedly about tax codes.  
  
Whilst they've stayed in the same room on numerous occasions over the past two years, Wales has only seen Romano naked once. Even then, it had only been a glimpse, captured in the brief moment between Romano shaking Wales awake and Wales' subsequent, harried leap from the bed when they'd last attempted to share one.  
  
It was a very tantalising glimpse, however, and Wales' desperately understimulated and sex-starved mind has a tendency to dwell upon it if he doesn't make a concerted effort to distract himself.  
  
The bed's mattress creaks softly, and then Romano offers his now-customary, "Good night, _Galles_."  
  
Wales sighs heavily. "Good night, _De_ ," he says.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
**17th June, 2013; County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland**

 

Wales' head is throbbing, the inside of his mouth tastes like an ashtray, and the crick in his neck is so severe that he fears he might never be able to hold his head properly straight ever again.  
  
He rolls off the sofa and lies on the floor for a while, gingerly stretching out his arms and legs until his muscles relax out of the tense and painful spasm that his restless night spent huddled in a foetal position had contorted them into.  
  
When he's finally able to struggle up into a sitting position and gaze blearily about himself, he notices that Romano's bed has been abandoned.  
  
He picks up his mobile and squints down at its unforgivingly bright screen until recognisable letters and numbers begin to swim into focus.  
  
Eight-thirty. The first meeting starts at nine.  
  
"Thanks for waking me up," he says to the empty and uncaring room.  
  
He stumbles into the shower and turns it on as high as it will go. Each droplet of water falls like a tiny ball of lead against the top of his skull, setting his ears to ringing.  
  
Grabbing the nearest bottle to hand, he first washes his hair as quickly as his aching arms will allow, and then, using the tiny sachet of shower gel the hotel had thoughtfully provided, scrubs at his skin until every last inch of it stings.  
  
He intends to make just as swift work of brushing his teeth, but, try as he might, he can't bring himself to spend a second less at the task than the two minutes that his dentist and the back of the toothpaste tube recommend.  
  
It's twenty to nine when he begins dressing, quarter to when he makes a final, buffing pass of his handkerchief over the toes of his shoes.  
  
Not nearly long enough for breakfast, but, if he rushes, he might just have enough time to smoke a cigarette, and, most importantly, gulp down a cup of tea.

 

* * *

  
  
Wales makes it to the conference room with a couple of minutes left to spare, only to discover that he could have waited for his tea to cool down a little more before he drank it and thus saved himself from a blistered tongue, because he's still amongst the first to arrive.  
  
Germany is sitting at the head of the long table that takes up the better part of the room, hunched over his laptop and tapping very forcefully at its keyboard, but all of the other chairs are unoccupied save for one of the three arranged in tight formation behind a small place card upon which the Union Jack is printed.  
  
Northern Ireland is slumped there, his chin resting against his chest and looking very green about the gills.  
  
"I think I'm dying," he says when Wales takes the seat next to him. "Or possibly already dead."  
  
They first is as unlikely as the second, but Wales presses the back of his hand against Northern Ireland's brow just to set his own mind at ease, nevertheless. It's clammy and a little too warm, but nothing that a hangover wouldn't readily explain.  
  
"You'll survive, _brawd_ ," he says.  
  
"I don't know how you can be sure of that," Northern Ireland says. "That last slice of bacon I ate is feeling like it was a really, _really_ bad idea right now. It might just finish me off." He opens one eye a crack. "I didn't see you in the restaurant."  
  
"I overslept," Wales says. "Had to make do with caffeine and nicotine."  
  
"The real breakfast of champions. Sod porridge."  
  
Northern Ireland chuckles, and then makes a sudden clutch for his stomach with one hand whilst clapping the other over his mouth.  
  
Wales thinks it best if he's left to be still and above all silent for the time being, and so casts his gaze out across the room in search of a temporary distraction.  
  
Japan provides one in short order, as he hurries through the door full of apologies for being exactly on time, and he's closely followed by Russia, who greets Wales with all the ardour of a long-lost friend.  
  
Wales smiles, returns the greeting as coolly as the bounds of politeness allow, and then feigns renewed concern with Northern Ireland's health in an attempt to discourage any attempts at further interaction. Russia still sends him texts sporadically, and Wales is no closer to deciphering their intent than when he had received the first, immediately following the date France set them up on. They haven't become any less unsettling during that time, either.  
  
So deep is his pretence that he doesn't notice France and Scotland's arrival until his brother digs an elbow into his ribs, and informs him that: "You look like shit."  
  
"Why, thank you, _Yr Alban_." Wales scowls at Scotland, but can't rightly return the insult because he looks as fresh as a daisy. His complexion is rosy, his eyes sparkling, and his clothing is not only unrumpled – in sharp contrast to Wales' own – but as flatteringly cut and well-coordinated as it is on any day France is around to pick out an outfit for him. It's fairly sickening. "And good morning to you, too."  
  
"How are you feeling now, _Nord_?" France asks as he settles himself into the chair on Scotland's left.  
  
"Dreadful," Northern Ireland moans.  
  
He downgrades his assessment to, "Horrendous," after America bounds into the room booming out his own hearty 'Good morning's, and then ruffles Northern Ireland's hair as he passes behind his seat en route to his own.  
  
Italy's entrance is only marginally quieter, though his greetings to the room at large are just as cheerful. Romano's, in contrast, is near-silent, and he stares across the width of the table at Wales in an almost accusatory way which Wales cannot even begin to fathom, because _he_ wasn't the one who cruelly condemned someone to sleep through their breakfast, after all.  
  
At quarter-past-nine, Canada finally trails in and tells Germany that, unfortunately, Prussia won't be able to attend the morning's session because he was taken ill during the night.  
  
Scotland's smirk implies that he doesn't believe that explanation for a moment. As, too, does Germany's frown, but he nonetheless gets to his feet and calls a start to their meeting.  
  
Despite his frenzied bout of research, Wales becomes lost roughly three sentences into Germany's opening presentation outlining their aims for the summit. His Assembly has virtually no tax-varying powers to speak of, so the topic is one he's not as intimately familiar with as he used to be when he spent more of his time at Westminster.  
  
Hopefully, though, that state of affairs will be changing soon if the recommendations of the Silk Commission are acted on, so Wales pays close attention and makes careful notes for his future reference. Beside him, Scotland doodles a complicated, looping pattern across the open page of his own notebook. Northern Ireland seems to have fallen asleep.  
  
At the very end of his talk, Germany says something that makes Wales' heart drop precipitously in his chest.  
  
"What was that?" he asks, thinking – hoping – he must have misheard it.  
  
Germany frowns again, and looks down at his agenda. He nods once, clearly satisfied by what he sees, and then repeats, "The UK will now give a presentation on VAT."  
  
"What...?" England had never mentioned _this_. Neither had the PM, nor had he included anything of the sort in the documentation he'd provided them with in preparation for this day's meeting. "We don't... We haven't..."  
  
"We still have some editing that needs doing," Scotland cuts in smoothly. "I'm afraid we weren't left with much time to work on it after England made his change of plans. Would we be okay to swap slots with somebody else and present it tomorrow?"  
  
Germany looks slightly pained by that suggestion, but does eventually relent to it and calls on France to present in their place.  
  
"What the hell are we going to do?" Wales asks Scotland in a whisper once France has relocated himself to prime presenting position at the head of the conference table.  "You do know we haven't got a single thing prepared, right?"  
  
"Jesus, it's not like we've got to write a fucking PhD thesis on the subject." Scotland rolls his eyes. "It's a twenty minute presentation, Wales. Between the three of us, I'm sure we'll manage to throw _something_ suitable together tonight."


	4. Chapter 4

Northern Ireland makes a miraculous recovery at quarter to one when lunch is delivered to the conference room. He springs from his seat with remarkable athleticism, and then proceeds to pile at least two of each variety of sandwich provided onto his plate, creating a large, pyramidal structure upon the summit of which rests a tiny sprig of grapes, added as a sop to Wales' concern over his complete eschewal of the salads.  
  
Wales' own selection is much more circumspect, as his hunger has become so acute that he feels slightly nauseated and eating holds absolutely no appeal. He manages to choke down half a ham sandwich and a handful of crisps before his stomach rebels and his gorge rises.  
  
"I think I need some fresh air," he tells Northern Ireland and Scotland, pushing his plate aside as he gets to his feet. "I'm going for a fag if either of you fancy joining me?"  
  
His brothers are apparently too preoccupied by their food and France respectively to hear him ask as they make no reply.  
  
Wales sighs, grabs up his suit jacket from the back of his chair, then makes for the nearest door which opens out onto the hotel grounds.  
  
The sky outside is overcast, shadowed by slate grey clouds that are swollen with the promise of rain. The air's also thick with it, heavy and oppressive, which not only serves to exacerbate Wales' queasiness, but triggers the beginnings of a dull headache, too.  
  
The headache is exacerbated in its turn by the arrival of Romano, whose expression is even stormier than the sky.  
  
After nodding to him in greeting, Wales tries to ignore his presence, but, cat-like, he seems to interpret the lack of eye contact as a friendly invitation. He sidles closer, his own gaze fixed intently upon Wales' chest.  
  
Wales tries to ignore that as well but to no avail, and he's eventually made so self-conscious by it that he has to look down himself to check what might have attracted this uncharacteristically keen interest in his person. He expects to discover that his shirt has become stained, or perhaps that he missed a button or two in haste to get dressed that morning, but instead sees the sticker Northern Ireland had given him. In all the rush, he'd forgotten he'd affixed it to the lapel of his jacket.  
  
"Why are you wearing that?" Romano asks in a scathing tone that suggests he has judged it to be an outré and incredibly poor fashion choice rather than the aide-memoire it is in actuality.  
  
" _Gogledd_ made it for me, because most nations usually haven't the vaguest clue who I am when we come to these things," Wales says. "They tend to think I'm one of the staff. Or England's PA, like you did."  
  
"I didn't."  
  
Wales looks at Romano askance, but his bristling indignation appears so genuine that it's clear he believes in this particular piece of invented history strongly enough to render any remonstrations on Wales' part pointless.  
  
He shrugs and lets it slide.  
  
They smoke the rest of their cigarettes in silence, but after Romano has ground the butt of his beneath his heel, he asks, "So, why male voice choirs?"  
  
"Because my people are famous for them?" Wales says, but very reluctantly, as he's convinced that the question must be a prelude to mockery of some kind. There seems little reason to ask it otherwise.  
  
To his surprise, no derision is forthcoming. Romano instead cocks an eyebrow, indicating a faint interest that is far more insulting, because it betrays that he hasn't performed even the most cursory of research into Wales' country during the _two years_ they've supposedly been dating. Yet more proof that Romano doesn't spare him so much as a single thought when they're not standing within one another's line of sight.  
  
That, on the other hand, comes as no great shock, but it still irritates Wales nonetheless, and his anger spurs him on to say, "I'm a member of one. Second tenor. We meet every Wednesday, seven till nine. I composed some choral music myself in the nineteenth century, but it was embarrassingly mediocre and thankfully lost to the mists of time as far as I can tell. I write a lot of poetry," he points to the corresponding word on the sticker, "and have done since I was a child. My family will tell you it's all crap, but I've been published in several anthologies.  
  
"I lied when I told you I didn't like rugby. I'm on a local team. We practise on Sundays. I play winger.  
  
"I have never and will never shag sheep. Oh, and," he taps the very top of the sticker emphatically, "I don't like the name Wales. I prefer _Cymru_.  
  
"Okay? All clear? Now you know enough about me that you could probably make a decent stab at pretending to be my boyfriend, if the need ever arose."  
  
Romano's cheeks turn puce, his nostrils flare, and he opens his mouth on what is likely to be some claim of deep offence.  
  
Wales has no wish to hear it. He turns on his heel and heads back to the conference room.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  
America's presentation is scheduled to be the last of the day, and, despite the dryness of the topic, he delivers it with such verve and enthusiasm that he manages to plough through to the end in half of his allotted time.  
  
Unfortunately, instead of allowing them to keep this unexpected gift of ten minutes, Germany deems it better spent in a Q&A session, covering all the presentations they had heard over the course of the afternoon. Most of the faces arrayed around the table remain blessedly blank, but France... France has jotted down an entire page's worth of questions, and seems to relish the opportunity to ask every last one of them.  
  
It's past seven when they're finally set free. Wales' stomach feels like a yawning chasm, and his mind is so thoroughly consumed by thoughts of food that he doesn't notice Romano dogging his steps until he's halfway to the hotel's restaurant and the other nation grows exasperated enough by his disregard to catch hold of his sleeve and tug on it to catch his attention.  
  
"What do you want?" Wales snaps. He slows grudgingly to a halt, and only because he fears the fabric of his suit might tear if he doesn't. Romano's grip is exceedingly tight.  
  
"I need to talk to you," Romano says, and as he doesn't have the decency to look directly at Wales as he does so – preferring to instead direct his words to some invisible being who is seemingly lurking just behind Wales' left shoulder – Wales feels no compunctions about refusing.  
  
"It'll have to wait," he says. "I think my body might be attempting to digest itself in desperation. I need to eat."  
  
Romano shakes his head. "It has to be now."  
  
He both looks and sounds anguished enough that Wales' heart softens despite himself. "Well, you can talk to me over dinner, then," he concedes, "if you really—"  
  
"No, in private."  
  
It's one of the more ominous combinations of words in the English language, and Wales' blood runs a little cold accordingly, even though it's likely that Romano simply wants to tell him that he's finally decided their ridiculous double act is beginning to feel like it's more trouble than it's worth, if Wales is going to insist on critiquing his part in it henceforth. Despite the question that has lately been plaguing him, it might well be for the best, anyway. At least he will have saved himself one last humiliation if they get it all over and done with for good now.  
  
"If you must," he says, because there seems little point in dragging the whole mess out even a minute longer than necessary. "But make it quick."  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
  
Although he had professed eagerness to talk, Romano seems determined to do everything in his power to avoid doing so when they arrive at his room.  
  
He immediately disappears into the bathroom for a spell, then, upon his return, digs through his bags, rifles through the wardrobe, and paces back and forth, forth and back along the length of the bed, turning in such a tight circle at either end that Wales becomes slightly dizzy in sympathy just watching him.  
  
"Come on," he says, closing his eyes to help ease the feeling of vertigo. "Spit it out, then."  
  
Romano's footfalls gradually slow to a stop. He takes a long breath in, and then says, " _Galles_ , I—"  
  
A loud banging at the door interrupts him, and before he can start speaking again, Scotland calls out, "Wales, I know you're in there. Open up!"  
  
Wales winces. "If we ignore him, he'll get fed up and go away soon enough," he says.  
  
"Right," Romano says.  
  
Whilst his agreement sounds somewhat dubious, and Scotland's hammering continues for far longer than Wales had ever suspected his brother's scant patience could possibly sustain, he does bite his tongue until it fades into silence again.  
  
"We should be okay now," Wales tells him then. " _Yr Alban_ doesn't—"  
  
"Wales," Northern Ireland pipes up in Scotland's place. "We really need to come in."  
  
There's a note of pleading to his voice, a hint of anxiety, that hits Wales squarely in one of his tenderest spots. One that Scotland is well aware of, and also one that he would probably have no qualms against endeavouring to exploit.  
  
He shouldn't rise to it. He should pretend he hasn't heard Northern Ireland, either.  
  
He throws open the door.  
  
Scotland barges in immediately, a laptop tucked under his arm. "Jesus, took you long enough," he says. "Stop arsing around, Wales. We've got a presentation to write."


	5. Chapter 5

For a moment or two, Scotland and Wales become locked in a badly choreographed pas de deux of competing sidesteps as Wales attempts to block his brother's further progress into the room and his every bob to the right is met by a leftward weave from Scotland.  
  
Scotland is quicker, though, and always more determined, eventually wrong footing him with a quick feint and subsequent dive for the sofa. Upon gaining this key strategic position, he plants his feet a flat and unyielding shoulder-width apart on the floor and settles himself down so deeply amongst the cushions that it would take a far stronger person than Wales – and, more than likely, Wales, Northern Ireland and Romano combined – to roust him from it physically.  
  
As past experience has amply proven to Wales that the most likely result of such an undertaking would be nothing more than failure, humiliation, and pulled muscles on his part, he doesn't even try.  
  
"I understand this is all very urgent, _Yr Alban_ ," he says, hoping instead to play on his brother's sympathy, and trust to his better nature to send him on his way again, "but I've barely had a bite to eat all day. Can it at least wait until after I've had my dinner?"  
  
"We can order room service," Scotland says, with the alacrity of someone who had anticipated this particular objection and readied his counter-arguments accordingly. "We're on expenses; might as well make the most of it."  
  
An eminently sensible suggestion, and one which Wales can't think of a decent counter-counter argument to off the top of his head, so he changes tack and says, "It doesn't seem very fair on Romano, taking over his room. And, besides, we were in the middle of a conver—"  
  
"It's fine," Romano says hurriedly, a stance he reinforces with an insouciant shrug of his shoulders when Wales shoots him a questioning glance.  
  
Obviously, whatever he'd wanted to discuss wasn't half so urgent as he'd intimated earlier, which is by turns irritating, intriguing, and, Wales is astonished to discover, something of a relief. It also leaves him with no further objections to his brother's intrusion, but even though he makes none, Scotland rattles off fresh justifications for it, regardless.  
  
"And, before you ask, we can't do this in my room," he says, "because France is titivating himself, which requires every inch of available space, apparently, and North's room is minuscule. One of us would have to sit on somebody else's lap so we could all fit in, and no-one wants that, right? So" – he opens his laptop and holds his hands poised over the keys – "what do we know about VAT, then?"  
  
Northern Ireland, who had been loitering in the doorway with the clear intention of making a swift exit if things turned sour, sidles into the room proper and then throws himself face-down onto the bed.  
  
"You don't have pay it on Jaffa cakes," he mumbles into the pillows, "because they're not biscuits, even though they look like they should be. They proved it in court and everything."  
  
A fact which is both valid and accurate, but one that, in Wales' opinion, likely to be of very little interest to the rest of the G8 nations.  
  
Scotland, however, declares it, "Perfect!" before typing it out. He then glowers at the laptop's screen, and asks, "North, do you know how to make PowerPoint do that swipey thing with the slides?"  
  
Northern Ireland shakes his head, which, for some inexplicable reason, prompts Romano to look expectantly towards Wales.  
  
When Scotland notices the direction of his gaze, he laughs. "Jesus, I don't expect any answers out of _him_. He doesn't know anything about computers. He's _terrified_ of them."  
  
"I am not," Wales snaps, affronted by this blatant misrepresentation of his true concerns. "I just think it's a shame that—"  
  
"'No-one takes the time and care to write anything by hand anymore,'" his brothers both parrot in unison.  
  
"Face it, you're a complete Luddite," Scotland adds, and then, addressing Romano directly, he says, "You know, he's had the same mobile since 2005 or thereabouts, and he _still_ hasn't worked out how to set the alarm on it."  
  
Romano smiles slightly, and though Wales feels he should find some small measure of gratification at this evidence that there's at last _something_ about him that is capable of provoking that reaction, the sight simply aggravates him.  
  
"I'm sure Romano doesn't need to hear all this, _Yr Alban_ ," he says snippily.  
  
Scotland gives a derisive-sounding snort. "It's never seemed to bother you when I tell America embarrassing things about England," he says. "In fact, you usually join in."  
  
The difference there, Wales wants to tell Scotland, is that America _likes_ England, and thus finds such peccadilloes charming more often than not, but as he's apparently still yoked for the time being to cultivating the impression that he and Romano share a similar sort of relationship, he can only throw up his hands and say:  
  
"Fine." He slumps down onto the edge of the bed beside Northern Ireland's feet. "Carry on, then. Do what you like."  
  
Of course, there yet remains the very real likelihood that Romano won't consider the opportunity to hear such stories sufficient inducement to continue hanging around despite the company, because he and Scotland really don't get along, after all, and—  
  
"I can show you how to format that slide if you like, _Scozia_ ," Romano says, dashing Wales' last hope and firmly planting himself on the sofa beside Scotland.

 

* * *

 

  
  
With a truly excellent meal and the best part of a bottle of wine inside him, Wales feels a lot more sanguine about the whole situation, even after the conversation wends its way towards his past romantic partners.  
  
It's nice to have the chance to reminisce, even if his brothers do tend to remember very different things about them than Wales does himself.  
  
"Then there was Jeremy," Scotland says upon hitting the 1970s in his spotty recounting. "Do you remember Jeremy, North?"  
  
"Aye, he's the one that looked like an evil magician," Northern Ireland says.  
  
"He did not!" Wales protests, offended on poor, long-absent Jeremy's behalf.  
  
"He did," Scotland insists. "Pointed little goatee; great big waxed moustache; always made really, really intense eye contact like he was trying to hypnotise you. All he was missing was a collapsible top hat."  
  
"So he wasn't _actually_ a magician?" Romano asks.  
  
He appears to be genuinely fascinated by Scotland's stories, which Wales had initially worried might make his brother a little suspicious, given his own abhorrence of reminders that France had enjoyed an energetic and varied love life both before and during their initial relationship, but it had merely spurred him on to share more.  
  
"Naw, he was a therapist, allegedly," Scotland says. "He never seemed to have any patients or anything, though; just liked to drone on and on about the healing power of crystals, 'visualising your happy place', and crap like that."  
  
"I still find those visualisation exercises helpful," Wales says stoutly. "They're very calming."  
  
"I guess he had _one_ decent quality, then," Scotland concedes. "Unlike your next bloke."  
  
The next bloke Scotland had been aware of was Gerald, to whom he had taken an instant and, as it has since transpired, enduring dislike. Even twenty years on, he could still work up a sizeable enough head of steam about the man to deliver a lengthy diatribe on his perceived shortcomings.  
  
A diatribe they really do not have the time for. "Shouldn't we get back to working on the presentation?" Wales asks, trying to head it off at the pass.  
  
Scotland glances at the laptop he had set aside 'for a moment' after perfecting his first, cake-themed slide, but quickly dismisses it thereafter. "It's only just gone nine," he says. "We'll still have plenty of time for that after I've got through with Gerald."

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
Two bottles of wine later, Wales and Scotland's lively debate about the relative merits of Wales' poetry is cut short by a brisk rapping at the door and France calling out, "I'm heading for bed, _mon coeur_. Are you going to join me?"  
  
The question prompts Scotland to check his watch, and what he sees there makes him scowl, and mutter under his breath, "Shit, half past eleven already?" He then calls back to France: "Aye, just give me a minute, _mo chridhe_."  
  
"You're honestly not planning on leaving now, are you, _Yr Alban_?" Wales asks, horrified enough by the prospect to lunge forward and take hold of his brother's wrist in a desperate bid to keep him in place. "Our presentation's not—"  
  
"Don't worry about it," Scotland says breezily. "I'll sort something out."  
  
"But—"  
  
" _Don't._ _Worry_."  
  
Scotland surges to his feet, breaking Wales' grip with ease, and, before Wales has chance to question him again, scoops up his laptop and stomps away, dragging a groggily protesting Northern Ireland behind him.  
  
"Well," Wales sighs out into the silence following their sudden departure. "We're going to be laughed out of the conference room tomorrow, no doubt."  
  
Romano offers him neither reassurances nor condolences. Wales would never have believed such a thing would be possible before tonight, but his good humour appears to have departed along with Scotland. Every last trace of the faint smile he had been wearing vanishes in an instant, and he bristles at Wales' in his usual way before announcing, "I'm going to get ready for bed."  
  
Whilst he spends entirely too long in the bathroom, Wales busies himself with the gloomy work of making up his bed on the incommodious sofa and his even more gloomy thoughts.  
  
Considering the events of the evening, it's more evident than ever that Romano is never likely to warm up to him. Scotland hadn't had a kind word to say to him before, yet Romano had nonetheless patiently – though briefly – helped Scotland with their presentation, talked to him and laughed with him, the moment Scotland saw fit to act with the barest speck of civility towards him.  
  
Wales is used to people thinking him dull, overlooking him, or being completely indifferent to his company, but relatively few have taken such an obvious and pointed dislike to him as Romano has. He wishes he knew what he'd done to provoke it.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
Wales lingers in the bathroom after he's performed his own ablutions, partly out of a reluctance to bed down on the sofa again, but mostly in the hope that Romano might fall asleep in the interim. He doesn't think he can muster up enough wilfully oblivious blither to enable the exchange of their tersely polite 'good night's at the moment.  
  
When he does eventually creep back into the room, however, not only are the lights still on, but, even more perplexingly, the duvet and pillow he had set out on the sofa have disappeared.  
  
"You were tossing and turning all night," Romano explains in answer to Wales' quiet and reflexive exclamation of surprise. "I thought you'd be more comfortable if we shared the bed."  
  
"That's very kind of you," Wales says, touched by this very unexpected display of consideration and concern.  
  
"You were thrashing around so much you kept waking me up."  
  
Okay, it might not be concern, but Wales will gladly accept annoyance in its place if it wins him a spot on an actual mattress.  
  
Romano is already situated to the far right of the bed, one side of the duvet tucked up tight around the bottom of his chin. Wales lifts the other side cautiously, ready to slam his eyes shut at the first glimpse of naked skin, but he instead sees the spare duvet, rolled up and placed lengthways along the middle of the bed, which seems to be a very shrewd and practical solution on Romano's part to guard against potential encroachments into his personal space on Wales'.  
  
Wales settles down without a word, and without a word, Romano turns out the lights.  
  
The silence thereafter stretches out for so long that Wales begins to think that Romano must have fallen asleep already.  
  
Not long after he closes his eyes in an attempt to do the same, however, Romano says, "From what _Scozia_ was saying, it sounds like you've had a lot of lovers."  
  
The comment doesn't sound censorious or judgemental, but it does betray a mild curiosity that Wales finds he wants to encourage, despite the subject matter being one he is not used to discussing in the normal course of things, Scotland's disparaging tales from earlier in the night notwithstanding.  
  
"Compared to the average human, I suppose I have,"  he says. And rather more than Scotland had suggested, too, but then Scotland hadn't cared to acknowledge the existence of at least half of them. "I wouldn't really say it's 'a lot', though, considering I am over two thousand years old. I'm not exactly what you'd call a casanova."  
  
Romano's curiosity was apparently very fleeting, as he makes no answer to that, excepting another lengthy silence that he eventually draws to a close with a curt, "Good night, _Galles_ ," which, in his own, idiosyncratic lexicon, is really just another way of saying, "Shut up, Wales."  
  
And Wales complies, because it seems perfectly clear once more that it would be fruitless to do anything else.


	6. Chapter 6

**18th June, 2013; County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland**   
  


  
Wales wakes with empty arms, which is a relief for the handful of seconds that lie between his return to consciousness and the act of opening his eyes.  
  
Because with that act comes the discovery that he had surmounted the meagre barrier of the spare duvet during the night and then migrated unimpeded towards the right hand side of the mattress. Whilst he may not be clutching at Romano _now_ , it seems probable that clutching had occurred at some point, given that Wales is now the bed's sole occupant.  
  
"Shit," he says quietly to himself, but it seems inadequate to the situation, so he thereafter assays a louder and more emphatic, "Fuck," for good measure.  
  
"Did I wake you?"  
  
If Wales had had chance to give any thought as to Romano's current whereabouts, he would have guessed 'relocated himself to the sofa', 'locked himself in the bathroom' or even 'jumped on the next available flight out of the country' before contemplating that he might be still be somewhere in the vicinity of the bed, thus the question catches him so far off-guard that he can't think of a rational answer to it.  
  
Romano apparently mistakes this dazed state for the incoherence of anger, because he quickly offers the placating, "I tried not to."  
  
A placation that, somewhat unbelievably, must also be the truth of the matter, as Wales had awoken gently and naturally, and not been hauled out of sleep by a swift cuff to his head like he had the last time they had found themselves nocturnally entwined.  
  
"It's okay," Wales says. "You didn't."  
  
He pushes himself up into a sitting position, but even after rubbing the sleep haze from his eyes, he can't make out any more than Romano's silhouette at the foot of the bed, smudged and indistinct against the dim light filtering through the thick curtains drawn over the room's windows. Though his expression is hidden, and even the exact set of his posture is unclear, there's enough of an suggestion of added bulk at the line of his neck and shoulders that Wales can only conclude that he's already dressed.  
  
"Did I oversleep again?" he groans.  
  
"No, I got up early," Romano says. "It's only seven o'clock."  
  
Judging by what little Wales has been allowed to observe of his habits over the past couple of years, Romano has just as much of an aversion to unnecessarily early starts as France or Northern Ireland, and it seems very unlikely that he'd have spontaneously decided to rouse himself prematurely without the impetus of unwelcome physical contact to hurry him on his way.  
  
"I'm sorry," Wales says. "For... you know, grabbing at you again."  
  
"It's fine," Romano says, though the tightness of his voice seems to indicate that his true feelings on the matter are far less magnanimous than the phrase implies.  
  
Wales cringes in embarrassment, and then rushes to try and explain himself with: "It's... It really _is_ something I do unconsciously. I'm like a plant, I suppose, except that I gravitate towards warmth instead of sunlight."  
  
" _Galles_ —"  
  
"You can ask any of my brothers. I've done it to all of them at one time or another. Well, sometimes _Lloegr_ gets to me first, because he does exactly the same thing."  
  
" _Galles_ —"  
  
"Next time – if there is a next time after this, of course – you should just give me a good, hard kick, or—"  
  
"It's fine," Romano barks out, something that sounds like real anger crackling through the words this time. He sighs deeply, and then adds in a mellower tone, "Really. Forget about it."  
  
This seeming dismissal does little to assuage Wales' guilt, as he suspects it a ploy to discourage him from continuing to talk rather than forgiveness of any stripe.   
  
"Look, I'll move back to the sofa for a bit, let you have the bed to yourself," he offers by way of atonement. "You could probably get in another hour or so of sleep, then."  
  
Romano sighs again. "No, you stay," he says. "I'm going to go for a walk. I'll see you in the meeting."  
  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
  
Wales frets and equivocates over seeking out Romano to attempt another apology for so long that he almost misses out on his chance to have breakfast again despite his own early rising.  
  
When he does finally drag himself down to the hotel's restaurant, it's deserted save for the serving staff and Northern Ireland, who is stolidly munching his way through an enormous mound of bacon and eggs.  
  
"No hangover today, then," Wales observes when he joins his brother.  
  
Northern Ireland shovels down another slice of bacon before replying, "I only had a glass of wine last night. You and Scotland didn't let go of the bottles for long enough that I could get a refill." He looks at Wales' single bowl of cornflakes disdainfully. "I'm guessing _you've_ got a hangover, though."  
  
"Just trying to eat a little more healthily," says Wales, who would have gladly devoured a fry-up to rival Northern Ireland's in size if he had either more than ten minutes to spare, or was blessed with his little brother's iron stomach.   
  
Northern Ireland wrinkles his nose, clearly unconvinced by this protest in cereal's defence, but soon returns his attention to the contents of his own plate. He spears another piece of egg with his fork, contemplates it in silence for a moment, and then asks, "Have you and Romano had an argument?"  
  
Wales isn't exactly sure how to classify their exchange of words earlier, but it certainly wasn't an argument. "No," he says. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Apparently he's stormed off in a huff. Italy was looking for him. I thought..." Northern Ireland leans in closer and lowers his voice, despite there being absolutely no-one around within earshot of their table. "I though maybe you'd... _told him_ , and he hadn't taken it very well."  
  
As Wales has no intention of telling Northern Ireland about what had really caused Romano to flee, horrified, from the hotel that morning, he simply reassures him that, "No, he's still in the dark about _that_."  
  
"Oh." Northern Ireland frowns. "What's taking you so long? I thought you'd find this sort of thing fairly simple."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Well, you've done it plenty of times before, haven't you?"  
  
"It's different with humans." Having been nothing more than an outside observer of romantic relationships between nations for the vast majority of his life, Wales hadn't been fully cognisant of just _how_ different they were until France's little matchmaking experiment began. With humans, he had simply cast his net wide, so to speak, and sooner or later, the timing was right and the person was right, and things progressed from there. It had never required careful planning. It had never involved _maps_. "Not as... fraught."  
  
Northern Ireland nods as though in understanding. "I guess you are a lot less likely to have fought against them in some war or other."  
  
"Well, I can't say that's really been much of an issue between Romano and me. I do remember shooting him a few times during the Second World War, but since he's never brought it up, I assume it didn't make much of an impression on him." Wales shrugs. "There's the future to think of, though. Centuries upon bloody centuries of awkwardness and hurt feelings to look forward to if it all goes wrong. Our kind have got long memories, _Gogledd_ , and we tend to forgive the political a lot more readily than we forget the personal."  
  
"It should be pretty easy to avoid him if you need to, though," Northern Ireland says. "We hardly ever saw him before."  
  
"I suppose." Wales stirs his cornflakes listlessly. They're soggy now, and have turned the milk a very unappetising shade of beige. He drops his spoon. "Then it'd be back to France's list, presuming he's kept hold of it."  
  
The idea is just as appalling as the prospect of talking to Romano _or_ letting things continue exactly as they are. As Wales fully intends to hold himself to his decision to stop dating humans, it seems ever more likely that he's going to end up having to resign himself to long-term celibacy, one way or another.  
  
"Maybe he'll make one up for me, too," Northern Ireland says with a crooked smile.  
  
Wales has been so wrapped up in his own misery and doubts of late, that it had almost slipped his mind that Northern Ireland was in a very similar predicament himself. "Oh, Christ. _Gogledd_ , I'm sorry," he says, hurriedly and thoroughly ashamed of himself. "I take it things aren't going well with Iceland."  
  
"They're not going _anywhere_ ," Northern Ireland says. "I'm no further along than you are. I was hoping you'd be able to give me some more tips, but..."  
  
"Clearly, we're just as clueless as each other," Wales finishes for him, chuckling. "But not a lost cause quite yet, I hope."  
  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  
Wales is thankful for his cereal's swift decline into the inedible, because his stomach turns twice in quick succession when he enters the conference room.    
  
Firstly at the sight of the empty seat beside Italy, and then secondly, and twice as strongly, upon noticing that Scotland is stood at the head of the table, clearly primed and ready to start presenting.  
  
Despite the inevitable and mortifying doom that is sure to follow as soon as Germany finishes his welcoming preamble, Scotland looks relaxed. Unconcerned enough to share what looks to be a quiet joke with Prussia, seated on his left, even though the slide projected behind his head features a picture of a cake far too prominently to bode anything other than ill.  
  
Even more portentously, after Germany has introduced the UK's VAT presentation for a second time, Scotland launches into Northern Ireland's story about the cake/biscuit dichotomy and its applicability to UK VAT law.  
  
Wales begins to slump down in his seat, hoping that, with any luck, he'll disappear sufficiently from immediate view that his part in the meeting, and the presentation as a microcosm of it, might be overlooked, but his slow descent is halted by the view of Scotland's second slide, which shows a carefully annotated graph.  
  
He straightens up again when Scotland explains it with equal care, and then, as Scotland points out the salient entries in the extremely complex-looking chart on his third slide, tries to attract France's attention towards him.  
  
It takes four, increasingly vociferous attempts, as France's attention proves itself rapt enough to be nigh-on impenetrable, but eventually he grimaces, and says, very tersely, "What is it, _Cymru_?"  
  
"Did you write this for him?" Wales asks.  
  
"Of course not," France scoffs. "He was up at dawn, as usual, and working on it since then, I believe."  
  
Which would still only have given him a couple of hours, at most, which would scarcely seem to be enough time to throw even the shoddiest of presentations together, never mind one that seems, to the best of Wales' knowledge, as well put together and researched as Scotland's.  
  
At the end of it, Wales is impressed enough that he's almost tempted to applaud. Scotland's warning scowl suggests that that impulse is as unwanted as it is writ clear in his expression, and he confines his enthusiasm to a simple, "That wasn't too terrible, _brawd_ ," when his brother returns to his designated seat.  
  
"I told you not to worry, didn't I?" Scotland says with a smirk. "I have done this sort of thing a time or two before. I do actually _work_ for my living, you know."  
  
"I know," Wales says, "but you'd better hope that England doesn't hear about this and keeps on believing you don't, otherwise he'll never let you get away with not attending another meeting again."


	7. Chapter 7

The meeting's afternoon session seems set to pass just as peaceably as the morning's had done until they reach the home stretch, the last half hour before freedom, and America brushes off a concern Russia had raised somewhat flippantly  
  
France takes mild objection to Russia's slightly belligerent response, prompting a remark about his interference that could be construed as a little disparaging. That, in turn, provokes Scotland, who charges in like a knight errant to defend France's honour.  
  
It rapidly descends into a bunfight from there.  
  
Mindful of the tragic consequences that had arisen the last time he had got caught in the middle of a similar international conflict, Wales scoots his chair back from the table, out of range of the vicious invectives that are now flying across it.  
  
A moment later, Northern Ireland does the same.  
  
"It's not that different from when the four of us try and have a meeting with the PM together, is it?" Northern Ireland observes. Nodding towards the head of the table, he adds, "Germany's even got the same face on him as England does when Scotland starts getting really loud."  
  
Germany is indeed wearing the same beleaguered expression their brother habitually dons in such circumstances, though Wales is inclined to think that he has much more right to it. England may well try to act as though he's above it all, but the moment things start slipping out of his control or anything he perceives as a personal insult is directed his way, he dismounts his high horse in all haste and wades into the fray with the rest of them.  
  
Germany, however, calmly but firmly endeavours to redirect conversation back towards the final agenda item they still have to work through, then calmly but firmly – and not in so many words – tells everyone to shut the fuck up and start acting their (considerable) age, and finally, when none of his efforts bear even the stingiest of fruits, calmly but firmly gives up, sits down, and starts watching the clock hung on the wall nearby like a hawk.  
  
As soon its hour hand hits five, he calls the meeting to a close. A hush immediately falls over the conference room, the argument seemingly forgotten in an instant by the erstwhile combatants, who begin meekly packing away their things in silence. The turnaround is so sudden and complete that Wales could easily believe that the entire altercation had been deliberately orchestrated to ensure a prompt finish to their day.  
  
Acutely conscious that they only have a limited number of hours remaining to them that will be covered by their expense claims, Scotland urges Wales and Northern Ireland to accompany him to the bar straight away afterwards.  
  
Romano is already there when they arrive, sitting alone at a table, cradling a half-full glass of wine that he appears to be attempting to scry the future in, given how intently he's gazing into its depths.  
  
Scotland greets him with, "We missed you at the meeting," and a hearty clap to the back.  
  
Romano, unused to such friendly overtures from him, obviously misinterprets it as an attack, and draws his shoulders up in a protective hunch. He squints at Scotland suspiciously. "You did?"  
  
"Aye, and you missed out on a good fight, too," Scotland says, grinning. "Though you'll be glad to know that Wales managed to refrain from breaking your brother's nose this time."  
  
"That wasn't something I ever intended on making a habit of," Wales says when Romano turns his narrowed eyes upon him instead. "It was an accident in the first place."  
  
The harsh line of Romano's mouth softens minutely. "I know," he says.  
  
"What made you skip out, anyway?" Scotland asks. "Not that I blame you, you ken. One day of tax talk is more than enough for anyone."  
  
"I... I wasn't feeling very well." Romano's gaze drops to his wine again. "Bad night's sleep."  
  
"You need some whisky." says Scotland, who considers it a cure for all ills, albeit only in such cases where a brisk walk might prove impractical. "That'll soon set you right. I'll get you a glass."  
  
From Scotland, the offer translates, for all intents and purposes, to, 'Welcome to the family," suggesting that one convivial evening spent together has succeeded where two years of Wales' begging, pleading, and admonishments have failed, and he's finally been persuaded that Romano is not an irredeemable blot on Wales' life who should be forcibly removed from it at the first possible opportunity.  
  
Romano, unaware of both the hidden meaning behind the offer and the fact that it will likely never be issued again in his lifetime, refuses it with nothing more than a loose shrug. "I think I'll just go to bed," he says.  
  
He sways a little when he gets to his feet, and his steps are unsteady as he weaves his way towards the bar's door.  
  
Scotland watches his halting progress until he disappears from view, then turns to look at Wales questioningly. "Aren't you going to head up so you can fuss over him?" he asks.  
  
The thought hadn't even occurred to Wales. "I'm sure he just needs a bit of peace and quiet more than anything," he says. "I'd hardly be able to help with that, would I?"  
  
"Right." Scotland stares fixedly at Wales, his mind clearly occupied elsewhere, but he eventually comes back to himself after a moment or two and a brisk shake of his head. "Well, if you're going to keep hanging around down here, you might as well make yourself useful. You can get the first round in."  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  
Wales also gets the second round in, but is saved from having to pay out for a third by the arrival of Prussia, who apparently owes Scotland several drinks due to his inglorious defeat at the hands of Scotland's liver on Sunday night.  
  
After that, Wales quickly loses track, but he somehow manages to never have an empty glass in his hand, regardless.  
  
He chats to America for a while, who is as garrulous as ever save where the subject of England's whereabouts is concerned, and then Canada, with whom he marvels over Scotland and Prussia's recklessness in inviting Russia to take part in their alcoholic game of chicken.  
  
Much later, when most of the hotel's guests have retired for the night the crowd in the bar has thinned down to a few scattered knots of dedicated drinkers, France joins Wales to coo over what a great opportunity the last couple of days must have presented to Wales, too, given that he and Romano very seldom seem to find the chance to see each other in the usual course of things, otherwise.  
  
Wales nods in easy agreement, because, of course, France is right. He won't see Romano again until Hogmanay, unless he happens to be summoned to attend some function or other so that Romano can cling grimly onto his hand in yet another futile attempt to ignite even the smallest spark of jealousy in Spain's breast.  
  
That passing thought proves itself unexpectedly tenacious, and returns to Wales with some urgency as he's trudging back upstairs after last orders. Hogmanay is, after all, unlikely to offer any sort of opportunity at all, given that it will be spent crammed into Scotland's house with Wales' entire family breathing down their necks all evening, and then sleeping only a paper-thin wall away all night.  
  
Another year wasted in limbo, waiting for the perfect moment that Wales is beginning to think will never come.  
  
Unless, that is, he asks tonight. Here and now, so the fear doesn't cast a shadow over the _next_ six months of his life, as well.  
  
It seems a logical conclusion, fitting, but Wales' belief in it soon falters when he opens the door to Romano's room and is treated to one of the fiercer glares in Romano's repertoire the second he moves inside.  
  
He's sitting cross-legged in the centre of the bed, still fully dressed, with a book lying open in his lap, and Wales presumes the latter is the source of his ire. He is never best pleased himself when someone disturbs him whilst he's trying to read.  
  
"Sorry," he says. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute, I've just got to..."  
  
He grabs his pyjamas, scurries into the bathroom with them, then locks the door behind him and leans his back against it, his heart pounding bruisingly hard against his ribs.  
  
Closing his eyes, he visualises his calm place – the deep valley with its lush green grass and tidy grey houses – until his pulse slows sufficiently that he feels equal to braving the short walk to the mirror.  
  
His reflection is no more inspiring than it was the other night: his cheeks are florid, his eyes watery, and his hair has taken on the appearance of a lightning-struck dandelion clock. About as sexy, he's always thought, as a well-worn cardigan and pair of slippers.  
  
Still, and despite all his fervent wishes to the contrary in his youth, that's never likely to change. As has always been the case, he'll just have to do the best he can with what he's got.  
  
He showers, arranges his hair in the neat and placid order it only ever attains when wet, brushes his teeth and then contemplates his pyjamas for a time before ultimately deciding that it would probably not help his case in the least if he were to spring nakedness on Romano unprepared.  
  
So he dresses – slowly and methodically, as his body doesn't appear to be as convinced by the rationality of his decision as he's persuaded his mind to be, and he can't stop his hands from shaking – draws on every last drop of his courage, Dutch or otherwise, and steps back out into the bedroom.  
  
Romano eyes him with complete disinterest.  
  
"I..." Wales says, but he finds himself absolutely bereft of ideas beyond that. His past amorous relationships have always progressed organically through each stage of increasing intimacy. He's before never had to try and elevate one from a null point to C, missing out A, never mind B, along the way.  
  
"I know you don't like me very much," seems like a good place to start, though. An acknowledgement that he has no real expectations of success in this. That he's well aware that he's probably aiming for the moon. "And we... we don't exactly get along, but..."  
  
But what?  
  
Admitting that he only started considering this because of loneliness, desperation and a single glimpse of naked flesh wouldn't flatter either of them.  
  
As he can't come up with any explanation that _would_ , however, all he can do is plough this part swiftly in an effort to deemphasise it as much as possible."  
  
"It's been a long time since I was... close to someone. Nearly three years, in fact. I don't know how it's been for you; whether you have any other... There hasn't been anyone for me. I don't cheat. I _can't_ cheat, even on people I'm only pretending to date, apparently, and we never discussed..."  
  
Wales' words have become _too_ swift, and even he can barely understand them. He stops for a moment and takes a fortifyingly deep breath.  
  
Romano has raised his eyebrows by about a millimetre or so, which Wales chooses to interpret as a _sign_. Whether it's an encouraging one or not is far from certain, but it is evidence that he's listening, at the very least.  
  
"If we are going to keep on... pretending, sharing rooms, and so on, I was wondering if we... If you might like to..."  
  
Wales has never had to ask this particular question so bluntly before, and he very soon discovers that he _can't_ now. He backtracks a little, and then ventures to approach it from a different angle.  
  
"I know I'm not much to look at, but I like to think I'm considerate, and I'm very flexible... Well, obviously not in a physical sense, but I'm willing to try just about anything once. Anything that isn't—"  
  
" _Galles_ , are you asking me if I want to have sex with you?" Romano asks with all of the bluntness Wales had been incapable of.  
  
"Oh," Wales says, and then, very tentatively, "Yes?"  
  
Romano doesn't laugh, which is also a sign, and one that Wales feels fairly confident in labelling 'not bad'.  
  
His reply of, "Okay," is slightly more of a conundrum, however.  
  
"Is that 'okay' as in 'thank you for confirming that for me'?" Wales asks. "Or 'okay' as in—"  
  
Romano snorts loudly. "It's okay meaning 'yes I would'," he says, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Oh," Wales says again.  
  
He feels strangely unmoored; even more lost in the situation. He'd been expecting accusations, claims of offence, an argument, _anything_ other than a simple acceptance, offered so quickly that Romano can't possibly have given it more than a single thought.  
  
And yet in spite of that decisiveness, he doesn't say or do anything more. He just sits there, looking through Wales rather than at him once more; completely, silently, _mountainously_ still.  
  
Wales will have to be the straightforward one this time, it seems.  
  
He goes to him.


	8. Chapter 8

Wales' first lover had been a twice-widowed noblewoman, who, at thirty-five, was much more worldly in many ways than him, despite his being forty times her age at the time.  
  
She had never claimed to love him as he loved her, but she had been gentle, compassionate, and, above all, very patient. She had not curbed his youthful enthusiasm, but she had tempered it, and taught him that lovemaking should not be a race to completion but a journey to be savoured.  
  
It was a lesson he had learnt both eagerly and well. He's had scores of lovers during the intervening centuries, and never once reverted to any semblance of that fumbling, overeager boy that he'd thought he'd left behind with the last traces of his adolescence in the sixteenth century.  
  
Until tonight.  
  
It would be giving it too much credit to describe his performance as mortifying. It had been disgraceful. He had disgraced himself. He hadn't even had chance to finish undressing before it was all over bar the shame.  
  
And he burns with that. His skin feels scalding to the touch; his throat parched; his eyes seared so dry that his eyelids sting when he tries to close them. He stares unblinking up at the ceiling, listening to Romano suck in harsh, panting breaths on the far side of the bed, where he'd retreated the instant they parted.  
  
He hasn't said a word since, which is probably a blessing, as Wales cannot imagine his thoughts are agreeable ones. More than likely, he considers himself duped; led by Scotland's stories and Wales' own admissions to expect a more accomplished and satisfying experience than Wales had been able to provide.  
  
"I'm so sorry," Wales says, in an effort to assuage at least a little of his feelings of guilt.  
  
In a display of charitableness that Wales finds quite touching, Romano asks, "What for?"  
  
"For everything," Wales says. "I usually acquit myself a lot better than _that_."  
  
He still can't figure out why he didn't. His best and only guess was that his nerves had got the better of him at last, and his mind had ceded complete control to his body, which, as it turned out, was far too impatient to be trusted with it.  
  
"Okay, _Galles_." Something a little like amusement is threaded through Romano's voice, warming his tone. "I'm going to go and get cleaned up."  
  
Wales doesn't watch him leave, and he doesn't look at him when he comes back, not even when a damp cloth is thrust unceremoniously into his hand.  
  
He says his thanks to the ceiling instead, and thereafter, because he knows he won't be able to rest easy if he doesn't, offers it a second, "I'm sorry," too.  
  
"Stop apologising," Romano says, and though the words are curt, he still sounds anything but.  
  
He sounds to be on the verge of laughter, but he doesn't spill over into it. Nor does he complain, or poke fun as Wales' had expected he would.  
  
There's simply, "Good night," which, though a reprieve in many ways, puts paid to the questions Wales thinks he might have liked to ask if he'd only been given a while longer alone with his thoughts in order to formulate them.

 

* * *

 

 

**19th June, 2013; County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland**

 

Wales wishes he'd asked Romano if he'd been disappointed. If he's rethinking either their old arrangement or their new one.  
  
More than anything, he wishes he'd asked for a second chance to prove himself.  
  
The questions do finally come, but too late to do Wales any good, as Romano is already snoring softly beside him.  
  
They niggle at him all the more insistently for being unanswered, though, keeping him from sleep until he's so exhausted that they unravel into incoherency.  
  
He falls asleep to birdsong and awakens to Scotland shouting through the door that he'd better get his fat arse moving because the hotel's about to stop serving breakfast.  
  
Wales glances to his right, meaning to apologise to Romano for his brother's rudeness, but that side of the bed is empty. His stomach, already slightly unsettled due to his restive night, churns yet more violently.  
  
"I'm not hungry," he calls back.  
  
"Aye? Well, you'd better be sure of that. I've no intention of stopping until we get to Belfast, you know."  
  
"I know. I'm sure. And, don't worry, I'll remember to go to the bathroom before we set off, too."  
  
"Fuck you," Scotland says cheerfully. "Right, meet me down at the car, then. I'll be leaving in half an hour, with or without you."  
  
Wales rises, washes perfunctorily, and then packs with more reluctance than he usually feels when preparing to leave Romano.  
  
Then again, he isn't usually leaving so much unfinished. So many things left unsaid.  
  
Or, so it would appear to Wales, anyway. Romano's disappearing act would suggest he sees things differently.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
As Scotland doesn't often issue idle threats, Wales daren't linger long in the room, even knowing that Romano will have to return to it at some point to do his own packing.  
  
He makes a whistle-stop tour of the hotel, taking in the restaurant, bar, Italy's room, and the spot just outside the conference room where they'd taken their smoke breaks during the conference. Romano isn't in any of them. His disappearing act seems to have been a literal one.  
  
In the car park twenty-nine minutes later, he maintains a careful vigil, eyes straining for any sign of movement in the grounds surrounding it, whilst Scotland chunters away to himself and haphazardly crams their bags into the boot of his car alongside his muddy hiking gear and what looks to be half a quarry-full of rocks.  
  
Wales' watchful reverie is eventually broken by Scotland, who jabs a rough finger into his side and then snarls, "Are you even listening to me?"  
  
."Sorry, _Yr Alban_." Wales shakes his head. "I thought you were just talking to yourself."  
  
"Why the fuck would I do that?" Scotland scowls at him. "What I was saying, _A' Chuimrigh_ , was that we need to get our stories straight about this summit before we see England again."  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"Well, we don't want him give him the impression we bollocksed it up, do we? That's exactly what he'll be expecting, and I don't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he's right."  
  
Wales grins. "But you don't want him thinking we did a particularly good job, either."  
  
"Exactly," Scotland says. "Don't know about you, but I certainly don't want him to think he's got any reason to drag us off to another of these bloody things any time in the foreseeable.  
  
"Now, I reckon it's pretty safe to tell him about that little spat at the end of the meeting yesterday, but downplay the presentation. I think we could get away with 'rushed' or 'a bit disjointed'. Something like that.  
  
"France knows to aim for ambivalence, too, and I asked Prussia. Canada, and America to do the same, though I suppose America might crack in the end if England" – he grimaces slightly – " _interrogates_ him in the right way. I was going to have a word with Romano, but..."  
  
Scotland pauses, eyes narrowing, and then inclines his head towards something just beyond Wales' shoulder. "You can tell him yourself, I guess."  
  
Wales wheels around in the direction of his brother's nod to see Romano stomping across the tarmac with a heavy surety of  tread that telegraphs both determination and grim dedication to whatever unhappy purpose is driving his steps.  
  
"Right, I'll leave you two lovebirds to it," Scotland says. "Best make it quick, though. We've got a ferry to catch."  
  
Wales is tempted to follow his brother into the car, but he forces himself to stand his ground, even when Romano fails to slow his approach as he draws near and looks set to barrel straight into him and knock him off his feet.  
  
He stops just short of doing so, leaving them standing only a handbreadth apart. Wales is reminded very strongly of the time they'd run into one another in the corridor outside Italy's hospital room, where he was recuperating from his run in with the back of Wales' head. Romano's colour had been high then, too, and he'd crowded just as close, promising a punch with both his posture and expression, even though he'd never threatened it outright.  
  
Wales shifts his weight onto his right leg and curls his hands into loose fists, readying himself in case the resemblance proves as meaningful as he fears rather than as accidental as he hopes.  
  
"Are you leaving now?" Romano asks, and despite what his sharply flared nostrils and ragged breathing might suggest to the contrary, he doesn't _sound_ angry.  
  
Wales relaxes fractionally. "Yes."  
   
"Without saying goodbye?"  
  
Farewells haven't taken on the same sort of strange significance as their 'good night's, and both Wales _and_ Romano have often taken their leave without giving one, but Romano looks a little put out by the discourtesy all the same.  
  
Wales could point out the hypocrisy, he could protest that Romano had made it very difficult to say anything at all to him by hiding away all morning, but he has neither the time nor the energy to engage in an argument, especially not over one small word that costs him absolutely nothing to speak.  
  
"Goodbye, then," he says.  
  
Romano rocks back on his heels, his gaze sliding past Wales to fix itself on Scotland's car, which is wreathed in a thick cloud of black smoke and rattling mournfully.  
  
"Are you going to be attending the world meeting in August?" he asks.  
  
"I shouldn't think so," Wales says. "There'll be no need. _Lloegr_ promised he'd be back home before then."  
  
"It's being held in Rome."  
  
"I know."  
  
"You could stay with me." Romano's eyes dart to Wales' and then quickly away again. "I'd like you to."  
  
A sentiment provoked, no doubt, by Spain's attendance at said meeting. As occasional displays of togetherness in front of him are part and parcel of the bargain Wales and Romano struck, he can hardly decline the invitation no matter how much he might wish to.  
  
"Okay," he says. "Fine. I'll see you then."  
  
"Okay," Romano agrees, and then he kisses him.  
  
Really, it's so brief and light that it barely even qualifies as a kiss, but it's more than they've ever shared in the open, in front of witnesses – as Northern Ireland and Scotland are doubtless watching them from the back window and in the rear view mirror, respectively.  
  
In fact, it could well be a show for their benefit, or—  
  
"Am I _still_ not allowed to do that?" Romano asks, frowning.  
  
Wales supposes it is a mite ridiculous to continue with that particular prohibition after the events of the previous night. And given the events of the previous night, it's both a wonder and very much a relief that Romano, judging by the petulance of his frown, is hoping that Wales' answers in the negative.  
  
"No," Wales obliges him, "you're good. And please feel free to do it again, if you like."  
  
Either Wales has misjudged him and Romano doesn't like the idea, after all, or else he's put off his stride by Scotland calling, "We're going to miss the ferry, Wales," because he hurriedly steps back. his face smoothing into its far more familiar blankness again.  
  
His voice is equally expressionless when he says, "Goodbye, _Galles_ ," and he turns and stalks back towards the hotel before Wales has chance make any sort of reply.  
  
For a moment, Wales contemplates following, asking Romano to explain exactly what he wants from him, from _them_ and this new situation they've found themselves in, because he knows it's a conversation he'll only ever have the courage to instigate when they're face to face, and he doesn't relish the thought of two months consumed by a different sort of worry.  
  
He's hesitated too long, though, and Scotland's patience has thinned enough to snap. "Wales," he bellows, "get in the fucking car now."  
  
And Wales' feet, acting on an instinct too ancient to easily overcome, bear him to the car in response.  
   
August it will have to be.  
  
When Scotland slams his foot down on the accelerator and the groaning protests of the Ford's sorely abused engine fill the air, Northern Ireland leans forward in his seat, bends his mouth to Wales' ear, and says, "I'm guessing you sorted everything out, then."  
  
Wales sighs. "To tell you the truth, _Gogledd_ ," he whispers back, "I honestly don't know."


End file.
